Cold War
by heartswells
Summary: [content warning: EDs & familial dysfunction] [FACE AU; Fem!England/France as the parents] Doors slammed, screeches echoed, and fury simmered. With brilliant clarity, he now understood why professionals cited familial dysfunction as a cause of eating diso


[USA] National Eating Disorders Association: 1-800-931-2237  
[Canada] NEDIC Helpline: 1-866-663-4220  
[UK] Eating Disorder Association Youth Helpline: 011-44-8456-347650  
[Ireland] Local Helpline: 1890 200 444  
[Australia] Eating Disorders Victoria Help Line: 1300 550 236  
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**FACE: Fem!England and France are the referenced parents. **

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His parents' tongues writhed maniacally in their bellowing mouths, and spittle leaped from the gruesome organs to burn the other's skin. Words erupted from their throats in raging, fiery torrents and scorched their skin as they spewed cruses from their contorted lips. The vibrations of their monstrous voices crashed into each other's eardrums and shattered like glass, lacerating the tender flesh with sharp syllables and accents. They hissed, and they spit; they snarled, and they howled; and they cursed, and they heaved. Vehement exhales slithered out of their clenched jaws, and scowls darkened the wrinkles that framed their glowering eyes.

The walls trembled and the windows cracked beneath the harsh tension that intoxicated the house, and bitterness tainted the environment, causing its inhabitants to be wary of the thick air they breathed. They existed inside a volatile atmosphere, constantly threatened by the crumbling of the walls and the collapse of the foundation. Language and action, like magic, required respect and meticulosity in order to avoid catastrophe in his household. The perfect combination of diction and syntax and the perfect management of chores and objects were all necessary to maintain harmony. It was as if their lives had become a desperate attempt at familial Feng Shui, and when the infamous, idiomatic milk was spilled, it spoiled and curdled instantaneously. Doors slammed, screeches echoed, fury simmered, and the milk was never cleaned up.

Like a cruel dash of sweet frosting on a poisoned cake, his parents' exchanges were not always composed of sharp edges and venom. Some days, he awoke to his mother convulsing beneath laughter and gleefully inviting him on shopping trips. Some days, he awoke to his mother frivolously beaming as if their family was not slowly deteriorating. On those days, his family tiptoed around her smiles, terrified of breaking her spell – terrified of their bipolar mother.

The violence described was analogical, and through their wounds throbbed as if they literally colored their skin, his family resided in a stalemate cold war, nonviolent and callous. The war was a result of political frustration over selfish decisions and a lack of communication and cooperation that refused to be remedied. His father was exasperated with his mother's refusal to seek treatment for her illness and her determination to destruct their marriage. What possessed his mother to behave as she did he could only imagine. She refused to reconcile with her husband, and she refused to change, and without her cooperation, their injuries could only worsen.

He felt far too old to lament for his parents' marriage; at his maturity, he was capable of understanding his mother's illness and his father's perspective, and he realized that he should emphasize with both their pains. Instead, he had developed his own pain, and for that he felt terribly childish and selfish. He was exhausted of the tension, of tripping over threads, of tiptoeing across landmines, and of scurrying across eggshells. He was exhausted of lonelily retreating to the confines of his room to soak his knees with tears, unable to speak of his woes. A portion of his mind begged for closure to this war, and for nearly eleven years, he had anticipated a divorce that was yet to arrive. He doubted the ability of residing in bisection to bring his family peace, but he was desperate for reprieve from the hostility and anxiety. In lieu of a divorce, he watched as his home became infected with animosity, and he mourned for the loss of stability.

He felt an arduous pressure to function as the family mediator. He felt obliged to display optimism and amiability each time he interacted with them, as if he alone was responsible for maintaining the pleasant mood within his household. He felt compelled to ensure every need was met and every item was in its place to dispel any threat of quarrels over chores. When they fought, he felt like a failure, for he must be their martial medicine. He felt enslaved to his family's dysfunction, and he felt silenced beneath the weight of his fear of them.

Most anguishing was that he loved both his parents with the deep gratitude that any well-cared for child possessed, and both his parents loved him, even if he often doubted their love for each other. He had no one to hate and no one to blame for his agony. They displayed sincere love and support for him, and he could not eradicate the love he possessed for them. As a result, he was filled with directionless misery and fury at the state of his family, at his mother for refusing treatment, and at his father for having become impatient with his mother. He wanted to be angry with his mother's uncontrollable, inconsistent moods and her inability to attempt to put effort into her relationship with anyone (because far too often she hurt him and shunned him), but she was _sick_. Yet she also refused available treatment, and that was her fault alone. It was infuriating. He didn't know what to feel; he felt selfish and childish for feeling anything at all.

With brilliant clarity, he now understood why professionals cited familial dysfunction as a cause of eating disorders. In this volatile home environment where he stumbled across thin ice, he desired above all else _stability_ and _control_. The behavior of his family severely damaged his emotional security, and years of explosiveness had catalyzed his descent into illnesses he was already genetically vulnerable to. He could not escape the influence of his parents, but he could not _fix_ them either. The world around him spiraled erratically, his relationships with those who brought him to life struggled, and he felt utterly helpless.

Food provided purpose and control; food also provided comfort and relief. The substances that poisoned his body were his to choose. He could praise his own denial and measure his success in pounds. He could feel his blood sugar plummet and lay in disoriented euphoria, deaf to the chaos outside his bedroom door. He could lie, and he could hide, and he could shrivel away until he was nothing in a great escape. Suddenly, when it all became too much and the doors slammed too loudly, he could slip the pantry's worth of food down his throat and revel in the comfort of flavor before expelling in back up and reveling in the comfort of sickness. He could have a secret control and a secret pleasure; he could feel _safe_ and _secure_ and _distracted_.

Undeniably, it was a lie, and as time progressed, he realized that control was elusive. He could neither control what he refused to eat or chose to eat, and purging became a tyrant that dominated his mind. Slowly, everything slipped from his grasp, and his disorder became equally as erratic as his parents' relationship. He failed to restrict, and he became nothing more than zombie - always binging, binging, binging, and purging, purging, purging! But at least he was numbed to the tension in the household, even if he could not numb himself to the tension in his stomach.

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Author's Note: The more times I read this and attempt to edit it, the more I hate it. It's just so hard to put this into words. I hope it was still enjoyable (or at least comprehensible). On another note, **I am not attempting to make a statement about England suffering from bipolar disorder.** There's no evidence of it, but my mother suffers from it, and I didn't really want to edit it out because its a very heavy basis for our family issues.


End file.
